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New Exeter
William Griffiths looked up in pride as the first of his Caravels—the Vanguard—takes flight. For now, it looked like nothing but an ordinary airship, with a ribbed carapace full of gas and a great mainsail of woven metal. But William knew that this new class of aircraft was destined to change the course of history. All around, men and women crowded the rooftops of the glass buildings in a mass of multicolored silk, their robotic attendants blustering nervously about safe occupancy levels and uncertified railings. Higher and higher the Vanguard climbed, until it surpassed the tallest of the glass pinnacles and stood alone against the mirrored city wall. He sighed. The wall… Even at one hundred and forty, he was far too young to remember The Fall, when all the great nations of Astraea had come crashing to ruin amid cannon rounds and atomic fire. Only a few—craftsmen, philosophers, inventors, and medics—had foreseen the end of the giddy nationalism and consumption in time. Together, they had built a protective ring around the old city of Exeter, so high that not even a trace of the poisoned of the Wastelands could escape. It would have been easier to make a dome, it was true, but the founders of New Exeter had staunchly refused. They would not yield the sky—and with it, the future—so easily. It pained him to think of the outside world, but he was always put at ease by the knowledge that, in the end, the jingos and gluttons had gotten what they deserved. Now, they were sure to be long gone, leaving nothing more than a howling, glowing desert prowled by monsters where the factories had once stood. The Vanguard was far above now, perhaps thirty thousand feet, and William had to raise his telescope to make out his creation clearly. It was almost out of lift, but still struggling bravely upwards as it clawed towards the heavens. Now was the time to put the Caravel to the test. With a deafening rumble, the Alpha Beam began to fire, sending a column of golden light racing from the city center to the distant ship. When it reached its target, the Vanguard’s metallic sails billowed, and it hurtled upward until it vanished, although the Beam continued unabated. Nothing could stop the airship now. Celebratory shouting filled the air, and a flute of champagne is pressed into his hand. William was not a drinking man, but today he downed his glass in a single draught. It was a fine day to be Exonian. * * * * A mile from the city, Syra looked up at the airship in disgust. You got used to seeing New Exeter after a while, glittering smugly on a hill like a crown prince on his father’s throne, even if the anger over the one-way glass never really went away. But now, watching as the airship climbed away into nothingness brought all the old anger back. As the people of the Wastelands suffered, and struggled, and lived on, the cloth-bedecked scum in their silver towers had always done nothing. Now, they were about to abandon them forever. It was true there didn’t seem to be much worth saving, out here where the poison in the clouds and earth meant that the night was as bright as day. But they were still people, and they were doing the best they could. Syra was part of the first generation since The Fall to be raised in a real village, tucked away in a crevasse where the radiation wasn’t quite so bad. The had filters for water, and there was usually enough game feed everyone. She had even gone to school, where Old Man Tom had filled her head with visions of how things used to be—green fields, broad streets, children playing on the steps of the Parliament. Most of all though, she loved his stories of what lay beyond the poison clouds. There were whole other worlds up there: planets, comets, stars, maybe even other people. She longed to see them some day—if only she had the chance. Furious but determined, Syra forced herself to turn away from New Exeter. The tunnel was almost complete. She would not live out her days on the barren husk of Astraea. The sky was calling. Category:Nationbuilder IX: Stationbuilder